Rehabilitation of the Soul
by redex
Summary: Yukimura introspective.  Yukimura and his illness.


The clock was still ticking.

Tears trickled down the corners of his eyes, making the ceiling blur and whirl with impossible shapes. They dripped down the side of his face, making his hair sticky with salt water where it was already damp with a feverish sweat. It tickled, but the energy required to lift his arm to brush them away seemed immense.

When his eyes closed against the tears he could only open them again, refusing to sleep. He had been doing this for weeks now, just sleeping. It felt as though his life was wasting away around him. The days were both excruciatingly long and startlingly short. It felt like ages since he had been able to walk and laugh like a normal person, and yet the days flashed by as he slept. Over and over again; he would not sleep any more.

He had never known such kindness from his parents before. He had thought that they were cold and unfeeling before, but as they sat beside him for hours and wiped his shivering body he was unable to summon his usual distaste for their presence. Had it been that he had been holding them away for so long? But he shivered through the nights and soaked his sheets in sweat and tears during the day. He cried easily, but summoned the smiles of so long ago for the sake of his teammates. To them, he was still a god and he needed to remain that way for their fragile sanity. They did their best to lie to him, but his insight was not quite gone.

He hated himself for not being able to stop them from falling apart.

He hated his body for not lifting itself out of this mess as he ordered it to. He hated how his feminine face had hollowed out and how he hadn't washed properly in weeks. He hated the pitying looks and the choice between bitter-tasting medicine that dulled his senses and the aching, continual pain that tortured his thoughts. He hated the doctors that had done this to him and felt that he would never forgive his body for rejecting him like this. And, at the lowest point in his soul's travels through hell, he hated tennis.

It seemed like, some days, hatred of life was the only thing that, paradoxically, kept him going.

In some ways, the process of getting better was more painful than the treatment itself. He had lost a dangerous amount of weight and was forced on disgustingly sweet power drinks and had enormous meals put in front of him with the expectation that they would be entirely cleared away. "Don't you want to get better?" they would ask, and he would have to smile and say "Yes" because how could he tell them that perhaps the journey to health was not quite worth the final gain?

His muscle mass had decreased to the point where he could hardly walk from the bedroom to the bathroom without dizzy spells and heaving breath. In fact, the first time he tried it he nearly passed out and his mother had to wipe him clean, carry him back to his room, and hold him while he sobbed hopelessly.

He was excited to have his first shower by himself, but his body felt as emancipated as a ascetic monk's under his thin, cold hands and he had to wrap in a layer of blankets when he came out to stop the convulsive shivering. He had not had the energy to wash his hair.

Going back to school was terrifying. His teammates had seen him in his sickbed, but only at his best moments. Now, he would have to keep that smiling face on for hours at a time, for everyone. Already, he was expected to look back on his experience with wisdom and appreciation for all the care his parents and family had shown him. He made all the pretty answers, but he could feel Renji's eyes following him when he former grace failed him and Genichirou seemed to be everywhere he looked. He sat out of sports period and instead tried to fight back tears in the nurse's bed.

His tennis uniform seemed a size too big for his still-underweight body and his racket stayed in its bag. When the team saluted his return at the beginning of his first practice back he had to blink back tears and clench his fingers in Renji's jacket. Sanada noticed his discomfort and ordered the club back to practice, though the regulars lingered a moment longer to appease the worry in their eyes. It was impossible not to see how eager and yet fearful Akaya was, as if they hadn't spent hours in the hospital talking together. How Masaharu and Hiroshi's fingers touched at the same instant and how their bodies seemed to relax as if blown by a breath of fresh air. How Jackal eased his grip on Bunta's shirt and how the springs in the acrobatic's shoes seemed that much energetic.

How could he have forgotten how much they needed him to hold them together?

His partners wanted him to sit down and talk it over, but how could he explain his boiling anger at everyone who moved so easily around him without having to worry about the clumsy bruises and the fainting and the medication? He hated even them, his closest friends.

He did extra workouts every day, away from anyone who could watch his slow, staggering and painful movements. Just re-learning how to swing the racket had him terrified that he would never play again. However, the moment he caught himself making excuses for his former habits he nearly threw into a tree. Had he truly forgotten what tennis meant to him? What life had meant to him?

The three demons of Rikkai got together for a sleep-over, the first since Seiichi had started sleeping over at the hospital. It wasn't until then that he realized how much they had been worrying for him. The tension of the past few months had left Sanada's shoulders and his awkward smile came infinitely easier. The lines and dark hollows around Yanagi's eyes were fading and he no longer flinched every time Genichirou raised his right arm quickly. He was re-learning some of his old grace and he caught himself smiling honestly far more often than he would have expected.

They lay on either side of him, his protectors and saviors. He had remembered a card Seigaku's Tezuka Kunimitsu had sent him and had to muffle his nocturnal laughter in his pillow: the guardians to the gates of Nirvana were Fear and Desire. Seigaku's captain should certainly know.

It only took a moment to arrange their bodies the way he wanted them, Genichirou holding him from behind and Renji's shoulder perfect for a pillow. They pretended to be asleep until he was done, the Emperor pressing a hesitant kiss to the back of his neck and the Professor smoothing back his hair from his forehead. It was the first night since the operation that he fell asleep not fearing the night.

After this silent reconciliation between the three of them, after forgiving them for being them and their forgiveness of him being him, he could get back to who he was supposed to be. Get back to winning Nationals, get back to being at the top of his class, getting back to guiding Kirihara and reigning in Yagyuu and Niou. Get back to getting teaching Bunta to jump higher and Jackal to catch him in the fall. Get back to scanning the club for new regulars and scaring the board into more funding.

And, most importantly, getting back to playing tennis. Getting back to life.


End file.
